Strings
by letthesongtakeflight
Summary: On her 22nd birthday, Natasha Romanov – freelance elite assassin and the infamous Black Widow – receives a call that threatens to reveal her past unless she kills Tony Stark. Things, however, rarely go according to plan. Especially when you're fighting to be free, and your target is a notorious genius billionaire playboy asshole.
1. Chapter 1

The lovely Thalia Clio on AO3 came up with this idea and let me borrow it. I don't own anything.

* * *

"Happy birthday to me." Natasha Romanov raised her glass of vodka to no one in particular and gulped it all down. It was 8 am of November 22nd, and the morning of her 22nd birthday. Twenty-two on the twenty-two, she thought wryly as she poured herself another drink. Birthdays had never meant much to her, but she celebrated them anyway because of the day they marked. Not the day she was born, but the day she was freed. The day she left her Soviet masters and boarded a plane for America. That was worth far more celebration than her life.

She was alone in her hotel suite save for the man snoring on the bed. She didn't know his name; if had he told her she had forgotten it. He was a nobody, someone she found in a club the night before who was interested in meaningless sex.

That was all that seemed to matter to her these days – sex and liquor. That was all that could drown out – well, everything else. The blood, the murders, the screams and worst of all, the eyes that begged her for mercy she never granted.

She'd thought about quitting, of course she had. She had, in the two short years of her freelance career, killed more men, women and children than she cared to keep track of (doing so would destroy her, but that was another issue entirely). She only took the most exclusive of jobs, from clients who could pay her what she deserved for her skill set. She was the best there was, and damned if she didn't charge what she was worth. Besides, she needed the money. The job was expensive, and she supposed she needed a backup plan, a retirement fund for when she finally left this life if nothing else.

Whenever that was. Despite the horror and revulsion she felt for both her clients and victims, she had no plans to retire soon. Because that would leave her with nothing. Nothing but the sex and liquor and her guilt.

Natasha put down her glass and, with a quick glance to make sure the man behind her was still asleep, opened her tablet to check her inbox. This was how she contacted her clients, by an untraceable and anonymous mail system. When she found a job that – interested was not the right word because barely anything interested her these days – attracted her, she would contact the sender. She would find them, never the other way round. One does not seek out the Black Widow; she seeks you out if and when she wants to.

That was when her work phone buzzed. She jumped at the sudden sound. She grabbed the cell phone before it could wake her one-night lover in the bed. No caller ID.

She went into the bathroom to take the call, making sure the door was locked. "Hello?"

"Black Widow, right?" Male. American. Young-ish, maybe middle aged. It put all her senses on alert. Not only did he have her number, his voice was also too smooth and oily for her to like him.

"Who wants to know?"

"An admirer, you could say."

"You require my services," she corrected. She had never received a call from a prospective client before, much less one who knew her number before she knew of his existence. It unnerved her more than she let show.

"I'm offering you the single biggest job of your career." The man continued. "You know Tony Stark – owner of Stark Industries, weapons manufacturer, one hell of a weirdo?"

Stark. Natasha knew of Stark. Unlike the rest of the world, she didn't give a shit about his narcissism or his pioneering work in military weaponry or his infamous sexual exploits. She only cared because his weapons really were the best out there and cost a fortune on the black market.

"They say it's impossible for anyone to get to him," the man continued. That was true; Stark was notoriously difficult to kidnap or kill, so much that he was considered an invincible and therefore impossible target by the assassin world.

For the first time in a while, Natasha's interest piqued. "Dead or alive?"

He laughed. "I knew you could do it. I always had faith in you, you know that?"

She didn't take part in his banter. Something about small talk always put her on edge. "I require a high price for Stark," she said. "Five times my usual rate."

"That's not going to be a problem."_ Dammit, should have asked for seven._

"Any details?"

"All I want is for him to die. I'm sure you'll come up with something. Nothing that will connect it back to me, of course."

"And who is this?" She half expected that he wouldn't answer.

But he did. "Hammer. Justin Hammer." She could hear the smug smirk on his face. "I expect to hear back from you soon. In the meantime I have a most interesting file in my hands about a certain training program... Natalia."

Her heart dropped to her stomach.

* * *

Notes:

So Thalia Clio on AO3 wrote a beautiful Iron Widow fanfic with this premise. It's called "people aren't supposed to look back", over on AO3, please go and read it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

* * *

If these were normal circumstances – normal meaning that she was going to kill some sleazy CEO or corporate heir, without a client who knows her past breathing down her neck – she would know exactly what to do. Chance encounter at some high-end place, bat her eyelashes and show some cleavage, play the damsel in distress. Then she would be taken home and he would be killed half-naked as she sits astride him.

But this was Tony Stark. The man was untouchable. Every one of the numerous attempts to kidnap or kill him had failed. Something in Natasha – that proud, unbeatable spark that she's carried with her her whole life and had pushed her to become the Red Room's star pupil – was excited for this challenge. If she killed Stark she would cement her reputation as the top assassin in the country, maybe even the world.

_If._

There was also the fact that Hammer knew more – a _lot_ more – about her than she was comfortable with. She knew the man, or at least knew about him. Another one of those guys with more money than they know what to do with and more guns trained on them than they know about. Well, Hammer definitely knew he had _some_ guns trained on him, even if he was probably unaware of the actual number. He was, like Stark, unkillable. But that was because he surrounded himself with security at all times; a rather uncouth method compared to Stark's. Though he wasn't quite on Stark's calibre in the genius factor either; both had started life as child geniuses, though only Stark had retained the label in adulthood. Hammer's brilliance left him as soon as puberty arrived.

Natasha decided to deal with the problem of Hammer and his hold over her when she's gotten rid of Stark. She was safe as long as she was planning to kill Stark, and then at least she would have Stark's murder – not to mention the payment – under her belt. That would secure her position and future employment.

So, going on with killing Stark seemed to be the shrew course of action, whether she decided to deal with Hammer or not. After reading every news article about him within a month and confirming what she already knew – that he was a cocky playboy to put all cocky playboys to shame – she tried less conventional means of finding out about him. Hacking, which was one of her numerous areas of expertise. But Stark's server proved as difficult to hack as it was to kill him. It was without a doubt the most sophisticated and unbreathable cyber defense she had seen in her life. Even with her best attempts she couldn't get in. She eventually had to admit defeat and made herself a cup of tea; but despite the failure she couldn't help but feel all the more eager to meet Stark, the mind who had made that system good enough to keep her out.

That meant doing things old school, and a more drawn-out game plan. That was okay; when she started her career she didn't have all this fancy tech stuff either. The memory of her Red Room days brought out a faint ache in the back of her mind, just bordering on painful and definitely annoying enough to stop her from concentrating.

She shoved the memories in a mental drawer and locked it. Back to work.

It took her two weeks, but she got into Stark Industries. Faked records, a tailor-made CV, an interview she charmed her way through. Then there was the polygraph, which was admittedly better than most and would have deterred most assassins, but she was Natasha Romanov, and the Red Room would've been ashamed if she couldn't beat a simple lie detector. And then she – or rather, Natalie Rushman – was in, as part of Stark Industries' security . That was always an easy way to get close to the rich and paranoid; they never suspect their security detail.

It took her another week to meet Stark and get his attention.

He was in the gym, she was told. Boxing lessons with Happy, who was his bodyguard. A little fact that was going to change soon, if things went well for her. So she found herself the little errand of delivering papers for him to sign – a task usually assigned to secretaries and assistants, but she tweaked the strings enough so that it landed in her hands. After that it was simply batting her eyelashes at him and introducing herself as Natalie Rushman, getting him interested enough to Google her, and show off her skills by taking Happy down in three seconds. "I want one," she heard him say to Pepper Potts when she sashayed her way out of the gym. She smirked; he was in her palm.

That very afternoon, she was summoned to Stark's office.

"Ms Rushman," he addressed her when she entered after a brisk knock. He was sitting at his desk, having swapped his earlier gym clothes for an Italian-designed suit that fit perfectly in the glass and metal of Stark Industries' main office.

"Mr Stark." She stood in front of his desk, hands in front of her; polite, professional, demure. She threw in a smile that was just coy enough. "How can I be of service?"

"What do you think about a promotion?"

"To what, sir?"

"My personal security team."

Well, that wasn't unexpected, but she hadn't anticipated it to be so soon. She only had to fake half of her surprise. "Oh." Her eyebrows rose and she played the part of the shy, flattered girl. "Thank you, sir."

"I wanted you to start today, but" – he waved his hand in a dismissive gesture and stood up, – "legal stuff, you know, with the contracts. Lawyers, ugh. So you'll be starting" – he came out from behind his desk and placed his hands on her shoulders – "tomorrow."

She gave another smile, just shy enough, as though she couldn't believe she was in such close proximity to Tony Stark. "Thank you, sir," she said again, letting her breath catch in her throat just a little, like she was in awe to be given such a privilege.

"Tony."

She looked up, summoning a sparkle to her eyes even though she hated this man, hated all that he stood for and hated that through him, Justin Hammer had power over her. "Thank you, Tony." She leaned a little closer, like she was about to kiss him on his cheek, but pulled back at the last minute, out of his grasp.

"Is there anything else you need, Mr Stark?"

"No." He turned away, hands in pockets, looking out the window behind his desk. "That will be it for now, Ms Rushman." She turned to leave, but – "Wait!" he called.

"Yes?" Her eyebrows raised just minutely, expectantly.

"I need a companion for dinner tonight."

"Isn't there a legal – _thing_ – that would prevent my services until tomorrow?"

"Not as my bodyguard, just as friends." He smiled, fulfilling her expectations by acting every bit the womanizer of reputation. "I'm allowed to be friends with beautiful girls, aren't I?"

_You do little else,_ she thought with disdain, but smiled demurely and said, "At seven?"

"At seven."

Fifteen minutes before seven, Natasha had changed into a wine red dress, just proper enough to be demure, just revealing enough to be sexy. There was nowhere to hide weapons though, and she briefly considered changing to something more practical, with somewhere to conceal a dagger or a gun. But she decided to stick with the dress. She wasn't planning on killing him tonight; it would draw too much suspicion to herself.

At seven o'clock, she got into his limo in front of the building. Happy opened the door for her and Stark was waiting in the back with a sexist compliment on her looks. She accepted it with a gracious smile to hide her disgust. She wished that she could kill him right then and there; she probably could, too, even unarmed. But there was Happy driving, and another bodyguard, Lucas, in the passenger seat. Two armed, highly trained personnel who were now aware of her abilities. She could sense Happy's distrustful eyes on her in the rearview mirror. If she tried killing Stark now with literally her bare hands, she would have a hole through her brain before he stopped breathing. _No, stick to the plan._

They pulled up outside a restaurant. It wasn't excessively fancy, for which she was thankful, but it was pricey enough for Stark to show off. Happy and Lucas followed them at a distance, far enough to allow some degree of privacy but close enough to protect Tony should Natasha try anything. She supposed that poison was always an option, but she hadn't prepared tonight. She wasn't going to kill him, only get close enough to him so that more opportunities could arise.

It was easier than she expected. For all his paranoia, Tony Stark was a womanizer, and beautiful women were his weakness. He flirted with her and she flirted back, brazen at times, coy at others. "I don't get it," he said near the end of the evening. "Why would a gorgeous girl like you choose to be a bodyguard?"

"Oh, I don't know," she said, forking off a piece of her cake and bringing it to her red lips. "I guess it kinda chose me."

"C'mon," he said. "You're beautiful and clever, you can do anything."

She smiled and ducked her head to feign shyness, pushing an errant strand of hair back. "Why thank you, Mr Stark," she said, evading the question. She thought on her feet for a plausible explanation, hoping all the while that he wouldn't push the question.

Thankfully he didn't. "C'mon, I told you to call me Tony."

"Okay. Tony." She smiled at him and he grinned back, already moved on to a different topic.

"You know anything about AIs, Natalie?"

She laughed; she knew exactly what her husky voice did to men. "Like sci-fi movie AIs? Robots?"

He chuckled along with her. "Kinda. I've been developing a system, it's basically a personalized butler. It keeps track of all my digital stuff – data, servers, stuff like that. Eventually he's going to run pretty much everything in the house now."

"Everything? To what extent?"

"Regulating temperature, data analysis, keeps track of my files… everything. He's like a butler and PA rolled into one."

" 'He'? "

"Yeah." Tony looked sheepish. "Jarvis. Stands for Just Another Rather Very Intelligent System," he added almost defensively. _Soft spot, _Natasha thought. _Could Tony Stark be emotionally compromised over a _robot?

"Wow," she said, "I'd love to see that." She was only half lying. She'd seen the security system the man designed and she knew that if anyone could make an AI that impressive, it was Stark.

"You should. Come over sometime." He smirked suggestively.

"I'd love to." She took a sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving his. "Sometime."

After their meal they waited at the front for Happy to bring the car around. Lucas stood a small distance away, inconspicuous to the average passer-by, but half of Natasha's attention was on him and the way he watched them out of the corner of his eye.

Tony, however, seemed oblivious to his bodyguard's presence. He was probably used to them hanging around him, having grown up as Howard Stark's son. She had not doubt that there had been a high price on him even as a kid.

"So, how about coming over the see Jarvis?"

"What, now?" _No, no, this is too soon. _She needed more time to establish her cover. Once she slept with him it would be over; he would never look in her direction again. She had to draw out the game, get him to trust her enough to let his guard down.

"Yeah," he said, "why not?"

She looked down. "It's unprofessional, Tony," she murmured, her dark red lips barely parting. "And I don't want to start talk about you and me."

"No, s'pose not," he agreed reluctantly. His gaze turned unfocused. "Guess I could…" he murmured and Natasha got the feeling that he was thinking aloud. He wanted her in his bed. Good, because that was where she wanted to be. Just not now.

* * *

**Author's note:**

I'm sorry that it takes me so long to update, I'm super busy with end of semester work right now but that'll be over in a couple of weeks. Then I'm going to see AoU (so no spoilers guys!)

Hope this chapter lives up to the first. Tony's a dick right now but I promise that changes will happen, to his character AND to the story.

Once again, please go read the fic that inspried this one, "people aren't supposed to look back" by Thalia Clio on AO3.


	3. Chapter 3

"Ms Rushman," Happy addressed her the next day as he strode across the staff canteen to where she was sitting with a couple of the others from the security team. The man looked upset; he hadn't liked her since she showed him up at the gym.

"Sir?" she looked up.

"You're going to Afghanistan. Mr Stark's going for a weapons testing and he wants you on the team. You too, Miller, Smith, Adams." He nodded to three of the men at the table. "You fly out tomorrow – come get the file at my desk later."

"Yes, sir," the four addressed bodyguards chorused.

"Stark trust you, Rushman?" Miller said. It wasn't meant as offensive; she'd never seen Miller be anything less than cheerful and friendly. The man was in his thirties, tall and big but with softness around his middle.

"Why wouldn't he? I'm on the security detail," she returned lightly.

Smith smirked. "The man's the most paranoid guy I've ever met," he said. "And trust me, I've seen my share of rich guys." He was the oldest of the group, over fifty, ex military, and more mercenary than the other two.

"He doesn't exactly show it," Natasha said. She was testing the waters, baiting them to tell her more. "He doesn't surround himself with security like some of these billionaires I've worked for."

"Worked for a lot of rich guys, sweetheart?" said Adams. "Fucked all of them, too?"

"I don't!" she snapped. Not _all_ of them.

Adams rolled his eyes. "It's only a matter of time, sweetheart. Even if you haven't slept with Stark yet you know he wants to. That's the only reason you're going on this trip at all, he wants to fuck you." The other two men gave him warning looks but he continued. "What, I'm just saying. Why else would he put her on the team? She's been here a week!"

"Maybe it's because I'm good at my job and Stark knows it!" Natasha stood up, grabbed her tray and marched off. She was aware of the men talking behind her; Miller was saying something angrily to Adams, who bit back a retort. She had to admit that, as much as the man was an insensitive, misogynistic asshole, he had a point. The only reason she was on the team was because Tony wanted her to get in his bed. But she couldn't let that show in front of her coworkers. She couldn't let anyone suspect her of sleeping with Stark, at least not more than they suspected now. She needed to be as inconspicuous as she could be.

She could make her move in Afghanistan, she thought. Just enough danger to write it off as an accident. Maybe a bomb in his car, or a weapons test gone wrong. The possibilities really were quite endless...

* * *

"My room. Tonight." The whisper brushed her ear on their way to the jeep. Stark walked past her, chatting with Lieutenant Rhodes. He briefly glanced at her and she dipped her head once, in confirmation. She had plans, and they were probably a little more intense than his. It's been three days in Afghanistan – three days of subtle flirting, dropping little hints that she was willing to sleep with him. Tony Stark, being the billionaire playboy he was, had seen the hints and now dropped his own not-so-subtle one.

It was really too perfect. He was setting himself up almost on purpose, like they were actors in a play and he knew his part. She planned on killing him in the bed – she _was_ a Black Widow after all, and despite her practicality she did try to do her job with style. Afterwards she would burn his body to destroy the evidence of cause of death. She would plant a bomb before returning to her own room; when sufficient time has passed to ensure that the body was charred enough she would detonate it. The blast should wake most people on their hotel floor – Stark Industries staff, including the security detail, and a handful of military officers. They would believe the bomb to be the cause of the fire and Stark's death. Natalie Rushman, who would have been in her room watching TV at the time of Stark's death, would be clear of suspicion.

So she got into the jeep behind Stark's with Miller; Smith and Adam were riding with the boss today, along with a military officer. Stark seemed to be arguing with Rhodes, who had gotten into the jeep in front of Stark's angrily. They headed along a dirt road in the middle of nowhere, red dirt spreading out from all directions around them, rivaled only by the azure sky above, unbroken by the slightest wisp of a cloud. They were heading away from the weapons testing site to the military base, and even the sturdy jeeps bumped along the road.

_BOOM! _The road exploded into flame and debris. Natasha's jeep was thrown backwards and flipped over. In the millisecond before that, she saw the smoking remnants of Stark's vehicle ahead of them. Someone was screaming. The jeep jarred to a halt and she was upside down. They all were. It took a second for things to click – the jeep was on its roof. Her ears were ringing, her vision distorted by black spots. Next to her Miller was bleeding from a gash in his forehead. One of the soldiers was dead in the passenger seat. The soldier who had been driving was unconscious but breathing.

Natasha took a deep breath. Her lungs filled with dust and she coughed violently. Tears streamed from her eyes, and the world sharpened when she wiped them away. The window next to her was mostly shattered. She kicked it out, using her boot to clear the last pieces of glass flinging to the frame. Then she climbed out, ignoring Miller's shouts for her to stay put. Enemies soldiers were firing at them, the roar of machine guns almost drowning out the sounds of dying men.

"Get back in, we can't have a civilian running around!" a soldier yelled at her. She ignored him and raced to what remained of Stark's vehicle. Adams was bleeding profusely from a deep gash in his side. Smith was stuck, his leg trapped between pieces of debris. Stark was nowhere to be seen.

Natasha contemplated leaving him. The chances of him walking out of this alive was minuscule, particularly since he wasn't even in the vehicle anymore, nor anywhere close to the battleground from what she could see. But her damned pride rose up in her like a beast, territorial: Stark was _hers, _and no one else could lay their hands on her kill. She couldn't fail this mission, not when it was the highest prize she could win, and certainly not when the threat of Hammer was hovering in the back of her mind like a dull ache.

So she searched for him. She grabbed a gun from a fallen soldier – automatics were more useful right now than her usual pistols – and looked for Stark. She could see where he must have gotten out of his jeep. A few drops of blood were on his seat, probably his judging from where they'd fallen, but not serious enough to worry her. She followed the prints he left in the sand. The marks were scuffed around by the uneven lay of the land, and the dozens of feet that have crossed it. She stood up straight and looked around, brought her machine gun up and shot at the militants aiming at her.

That was when she saw him. He was struggling and shouting while four men shoved him into a jeep. She fired at it, but it was moving fast, and soon was out of range. She could do nothing as the vehicle carried Stark – and with him her bounty – away. Within minutes, the rest of the terrorists were getting into their own jeeps and, as suddenly as their attack, they were gone.

The military officers flew into a flurry the moment they got back to base. Phone calls were made, orders were given, and finding Stark became first priority. The Stark Industries staff huddled together in a tent, looking numb with shock. The security team were a little distance away from the staff. Miller was slumped in his seat, wearing a defeated look. Smith on the other hand sat calmly, hands on his knees, back straight. Adams, who had just been cleared from medical, was pacing the floor in spite of the doctor's warning to keep still. Natasha, too, couldn't keep still, but she kept her agitation under control; she sat next to Miller, legs slightly apart, elbows resting on them. But she couldn't help the way she jiggled her leg nervously.

"What do we do now?" Miller said in a hollow voice.

"We wait, son," Smith said. "This is the military, if they can't find the boss no one else can."

"I don't like waiting," Adams said in a growl. "Why don't they tell us what they're doing? What are they gonna do?"

"They'll tell us when they've got something," Natasha said. "We've just got to be patient."

But patience did not pay off. By the end of the day there was still no sign of Stark or his captors. Rhodes arranged for vehicles to bring the Stark Industries personnel back to the hotel while soldiers remained on site. As soon as any sign of Stark turned up, they would know, Rhodes reassured the anxious group.

Natasha got back to her hotel room, feeling empty. This was supposed to be the night that she would kill an unkillable man and loosen the noose around her neck. Only that man had probably gotten himself killed before his little tryst with her. On top of her frustration she was dusty and tired and wanted nothing more than to hit something. She was seriously considering going to the hotel gym for some boxing, when her mobile rang. She checked caller ID; it was unidentified.

"Hello?"

"Ms Romanov, how nice to speak to you again!" She knew that too-smooth voice and her stomach coiled.

Her eyes narrowed. "What do you want, Hammer?"

"A little bird told me that Stark was taken captive today. Under _your _watch, too. I'm afraid this doesn't look well for you."

The thudding of her heart was so strong she was convinced it would jump out of her chest like in some cheesy cartoon. "I'll find him," she promised.

"You'd better," Hammer said. "I have this file in my hands right now and I'd really hate it if it slipped… say into the US government's. I'm sure the Red Room, for one, wouldn't appreciate it."

"I'll find him," Natasha repeated, dread filling her belly. "I'll spend my whole life looking if I have to. Until I find him, dead or alive."

* * *

Sorry for the delay, I promise that I'll update sooner this time cause I have an idea of where I want this to go.


	4. Chapter 4

Natasha looked down at the Afghan desert, a sprawling mass of dull gold and brown, punctured by occasional mountains that rose out of seemingly nowhere, sometimes gray masses of rock but more likely the same brown that the rest of the land was. Three months of searching for Stark by jeep or by helicopter, and the landscape was still undistinguishable to Natasha. They could have been searching the same section of land or been all over the desert for all the difference she could tell. And there was still no sign of Stark, not even a clue as to where his captors had taken him. Hope of finding the billionaire alive was almost nonexistent, and it was only at Rhodes's insistence that they were still looking.

Natasha had gotten permission from the lieutenant to join the search, on the condition that she stayed back if it came down to any fighting. She was the only one of Stark's bodyguards that had stayed behind; Smith and Adams had gone back stateside in two weeks, and Miller joined them within the month. Not that she could blame them; if she had been a normal bodyguard instead of an assassin under the cover of one, she would have done the same.

She had been tempted, more than once, to steal a vehicle and go looking by herself. But she knew that it was suicide; she was more likely to get lost in the desert than to find Stark by herself. So she had, for once, done as she was told and stayed with Rhodes's search team. Even if the lack of progress made her want to break someone's jaw.

She was prepared for a fruitless day of circling identical sand dunes, as identically fruitless as all her days these last three months. After all, Stark was taken by terrorists, and was likely to be dead already.

Then, above the roar of the chopper, Rhodes yelled, "There!"

Natasha leaned forward, gripping the edge of the seat, her heart pounding. A long figure stumbled across a dune. He dragged his feet, staggering like he was about to fall and lie on the burning sand and never get up were too far away to make out his features, but the body type looked right, even if it was darker and leaner and not clad in an expensive suit.

Natasha's blood was roaring through her ears, louder than the whirl of the helicopter as it descended. The man collapsed onto his knees, his face against the sand. The chopper's blades sent the sand around him in a swirl and his dark hair fluttered madly in the gale. They landed a few yards away from the fallen man – who was now close enough to be discernible as Stark. Darkened and gaunt and haggard, but unmistakably Stark.

Natasha's heart pulsated in her throat as she ran out the chopper on Rhodes's heels. The instant the sun hit her face she felt like she was blistering from the heat; she had trained in the snow in a tank top and shorts, but heat was foreign to her pale Russian skin. Even through her combat boots she could feel the heat of the sand, which radiated through the thick soles of her boots. The heat was almost visible in a shimmering haze. Stark had been wandering through the desert in what could have been _hours_. It was a miracle he was still alive.

"Tony!" the lieutenant shouted. Stark looked up, his eyes shining with hope, like he couldn't believe that his friend was there, and struggling rose to all fours. Rhodes clasped a hand to Stark's face. "How was the fun vee?" he deadpanned, before clasping Stark in a protective hug. "Next time you're riding with me," to which Stark nodded shakily.

"Let's get you back to base," Rhodes said as he helped Stark to his feet and got him back into the helicopter. Natasha sighed as they reached the coolness inside. Even though the fans left much to be desired, being out of the sun was already a huge relief. Stark, too, let out a shaky breath as he was seated and buckled up.

"Let's get back to base," Rhodes said to the pilot. "Mr Stark needs a medic."

"Yes sir." The team was all buckling up. Taking the seat opposite Stark, Natasha had a chance to take a closer look at him. His skin was tanned and sunburnt, dirtied with soot and ash and dried blood. There were scrapes all over his body, most of which were closed up and healing, apart from a few deep ones, two of which were on his arm; he cradled it against his chest.

"Natalie," he said around a cut and bleeding lip.

She didn't reply in words, she didn't know how to. Instead she took a damp towel and slowly, almost afraid that he was a mirage that would disappear, reached towards him. She was aware that her hands were shaking slightly; from the adrenaline rush, she told herself; nothing to do with Stark at all.

Stark didn't protest when she gently wiped at the dirt around his wounds. She started with the arm – those unhealed gashes needed attention soonest. That they let her avoid his gaze for longer was also a bonus that in no way affected her decision. She focused on her task, letting the silence lapse between them and pretending not to notice the amounting tension it caused. His wounds were mostly clean, except for the sand in them, which would be easy enough to wash out once they were back at base and had a proper medic. They also looked fairly new; he was lucky that he was rescued before they had a chance to get infected.

She worked her way up his arms, wiping the dirt from the other wounds. He was brawnier than she'd realized, his arms more muscle than softness. She dimly recalled something about his engineering work. He didn't mind getting his hands dirty, though more literally than most billionaires and just as figuratively.

Her towel was soon stained with blood and sand. She wet it again and moved onto his neck. It was laced with wounds, though fortunately none were more than skin deep. His goatee had grown out and was extending down his neck in a thick, uneven stubble. It made it more difficult for her to clean the wounds. She could feel his Adam's apple bob as she moved her towel over it, feel the pulse of his jugular vein. He tilted his head up to give her better access to the vulnerable skin and she carefully cleaned the wounds on his throat.

Then she had to move onto his face. Her hands had stopped trembling; the adrenaline must have worn off, she told herself, but some part of her, where not even her consciousness was aware of, was proud of her control over her emotions. She studiously wiped the dirt from his cheeks, and the dried blood from his nose and lips, when he said in a hoarse voice, "why are you here?"

Startled, she made the mistake of meeting his eyes. She wasn't prepared for what she saw there. They were more sincere than she had ever seen them before; their brown seemed to contain more depths than they had before. But those depths were empty. Hollowed. Like the cocksure genius that previously animated them was gone and left a shell in his wake.

She was completely honest when she answered, sounding almost as lost as he looked, "I don't know."

* * *

**Notes:**

You get two chapters in as many days because I'm feeling nice :]


	5. Chapter 5

Stark didn't say anything, not to Natasha and, as far as she knew, not to anyone else. Not even to Rhodes, who was his oldest friend. But the man who flew back to the States was a different one from the one who left it.

As soon as they landed he sent all the others home, but asked – asked, not ordered – Natasha to stay. So she joined him in the back of the car that Happy brought to drive them home, to the bodyguard's displeasure. Happy pulled up to the driveway at the Malibu mansion and unloaded Stark's things from the trunk, as well as Natasha' single duffel bag. She followed Stark in.

"Welcome back, sir." She jumped at the disembodied English-accented voice.

"Hey, J," Stark said. "Jarvis, Natalie. Natalie, Jarvis."

"Hello, Ms Rushman," the AI greeted her.

"Hi," she returned, hesitant.

"He takes care of everything in the house." Even tired and dispirited, a touch of pride crept into Stark's voice. "If you need anything, let him know."

Happy brought the suitcase and Natasha's bag in. He looked peeved when Stark dismissed him, but didn't question the order other than give Natasha a shifty look, which she ignored, and he left.

Then they were alone.

"I'm gonna shower," Stark muttered. He waved his hand at the empty mansion. "Come on, I'll show you your room." He led her up the stairs. Natasha followed, wheeling Stark's suitcase in one hand and her bag swung over her opposite shoulder. In the west wing he came to a room in the middle of a curved hallway. "Your room," he said, opening the door. "Mine's the last one down there." He pointed. The door of the master bedroom was just around the curve, out of her sight.

"Is this hallway the only way to get to your room?" she asked.

"Yeah, 'cept for the windows," he said, scratching the back of his neck, "and those face the sea. Listen, I'm gonna shower, so, y'know, make yourself at home." And with that, he took his own suitcase and headed down the hallway.

Natasha went into her room. It seemed bigger than her entire apartment, which was a shabby one-room affair containing nothing but the narrow iron-framed bed in a corner, a modest closet, the unstocked open kitchen, and a single desk and chair. This room was about as far from that as possible. The floor was cream-carpeted, matching the crisp sheets on the double bed. The bed frame was made from a dark brown wood and curved elegantly at the ends. The far wall was a huge window that looked over the pool, and if she angled a little to the west she could see the Pacific Ocean glimmering just below the house.

She swept the room for bugs, more out of habit than necessity. This was Tony Stark's house after all, and the man was nothing if not paranoid. She found three and suspected a fourth near the camera on the ceiling, but she was certain that there were more she hadn't discovered. That put her on edge – knowing that she was on camera in a space that was supposed to be hers and safe. Every instinct in her was screaming to destroy the bugs and camera.

She wouldn't be able to kill Stark now, not with all the cameras and recording devices in this house, not to mention Jarvis. She took a deep breath and the knot in her stomach began to untangle. She let herself relax, to enjoy this room that was hers for an indefinite amount of time. She knelt down next to her duffel and unpacked her stuff, putting the few clothes she had brought with her to Afghanistan in the huge wardrobe. She locked the door and undressed, dumping the clothes on the floor. She had been on a plane for nearly 20 hours, on the road for over 24, and she felt grimy all over.

Her bathroom was as nice as the bedroom. All yellow tile and white porcelain, with a tinted one-way window that overlooked the garden and pool. She took a shower; the warmth of the water loosened the tight muscles in her shoulders and back. She stepped out of the shower refreshed, her skin a light pink from the heat instead of its usual paleness. She put on fresh clothes and went out.

She headed down the hallway, which was completely bereft of any photos, to Stark's room. The door was closed so she knocked. "Mr Stark?" There was no reply. She knocked again. She contemplated entering; she would hate it if he had survived being kidnapped by terrorists in Afghanistan only to slip and die in his bathroom at home.

"He's not in, Ms Rushman." The AI's voice made her jump, but Jarvis at least had the good grace not to comment on it. "You will find Sir in the workshop."

"Um, thanks." Despite Jarvis's life-likeness, or maybe because of it, she couldn't help the awkwardness of knowing that she was talking to an AI.

She went downstairs to the basement. She found the workshop behind a glass door with a code pad next to it. Stark was inside, wearing a Black Sabbath t-shirt, stretched and faded. He had a hologram in the air and was moving the blue immaterial piece around. He would talk to himself or to Jarvis every few seconds, his sentences cluttered with technical jargon. Natasha tapped her knuckles against the glass. Stark started, looked up, swung his head around wildly like an alarmed rabbit. Then he spotted Natasha and relaxed. "Let her in, J." His voice came muted through the glass.

The door swung open and Natasha entered. She said, "What are you doing?" It came out harsher than she'd intended and Stark flinched.

"Just a… design thing," he answered half-heartedly. Natasha raised an eyebrow at his despondent tone. Things were definitely not right if he was acting this way. The man she knew and had been planning to kill would have showed off.

"Yeah?" She forced herself to soften her voice. "For what?"

"New project," he said. "More of a hobby than company… stuff." He trailed off.

"Oh." She knew how awkward she sounded. She was the Black Widow, for God's sake – put her in any situation and she could charm her way out of it. But she couldn't deal with one billionaire, who was not unlike all those other billionaires she had seduced or killed, except that he'd been through some sort of near-death experience and was having a crisis. "It's late," she blurted out. "We've been up for close to 36 hours, I know you didn't get much sleep in the flight."

He waved a hand dismissively. "If I wanted someone to cluck after me I would've gotten Pepper. Go to sleep, Natalie."

The use of her borrowed name struck like a fist to her chest that left her winded. She was Natalie. _Natalie_, not Natasha. She had to remember that, couldn't get attached. Because at the end of the day, no matter what he was struggling with – she had to kill him. For the glory, she told herself, but she knew that it wasn't true. It was because she was compromised and killing him was the only way she could stay alive. So she said, "goodnight Mr Stark," with just the right amount of coyness in her husky voice (but there was something real and sincere in there too). Then she went back to her room, leaving him alone in his workshop with the spinning blue images and his demons.


	6. Chapter 6

"Morning." When Natasha walked into the kitchen the next morning she found Stark leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee in his hand. He looked like he hadn't slept at all last night; he was dressed in the same t-shirt and jeans from last night and his hair was mussed in a way that didn't look like the work of a pillow. Not that Natasha got much sleep either; she spent most of the night turning in bed, trying to get comfortable in her too-big, too-soft bed. It almost made her miss her Red Room days, when they slept on thin mattresses on creaky beds, one wrist hand-cuffed to the bed frame – not that she didn't still do that.

"Morning," she returned, blinking away her surprise.

"Coffee?" He gestured at the pot, which was still half-full of the dark liquid.

"Please."

He grabbed a Grumpy Cat mug from the cupboard and poured it full. "Milk and sugar?"

"Just a little."

He added both and handed the mug to her. She took sip. Too much sugar. She leaned against the table, bracing herself against it with a hand at its hard edge.

"How'd you sleep?" Stark asked. She noticed that he hadn't eaten; the sink was empty for one thing; for another he was definitely a coffee-before-food guy, and he had just made coffee when she walked in.

"Pretty good," she lied. "And you?" His lips quirked up in an empty smile that confirmed what she knew. She returned a half-hearted one of her own. She was unable to continue the conversation; something about putting on Natalie Rushman's sugary, flirtatious smile made her sick and reminded of her first freelance job a year ago in Texas.

The silence was quickly turning awkward. She hadn't felt this struggle before. At least never before the kill. She remembered a young man in Texas, the first man she killed after she left Russia, how she killed him with another man's taste still on his tongue, how she felt nothing until she slit his throat. How she heaved into the toilet back at her hotel room, reduced to a sobbing mess, and even as she drowned his memory in vodka his eyes still burned her more than the alcohol down her throat. She couldn't take the silence. Couldn't take the eyes of that young man whose name she had long forgotten and his memory buried. Couldn't look at this Stark who was somehow not Stark anymore.

She stood abruptly.

"Why were you there?" he said.

"What?" She furrowed her brow.

"On that chopper. Why were you looking for me?" He wasn't hitting on her, that was clear. There was something genuine in his face, desperate even. Like he needed to know why someone would give a shit about him.

"I –" _I had to make sure you got back alive so I can kill you. _But was that really the truth? She had been sure of it, but now? "I don't know," she said, and she could hear her own voice raw with truth, in a way it never had been before.

The flash of panic across his eyes was unmistakable. Then it was gone, faded into despair, and he looked away. "Do you think that I –" His voice broke. His eyes were shimmering. "that I'm _good_? After everything I've –" He gripped the counter top as though it were the only thing keeping him up.

"Tony… nothing good comes of asking yourself that."

A flicker of anger gave a spark of life to the blackholes of his eyes. "And what would Natalie Rushman know about that?"

"More than you know." She turned and left the kitchen with a bitter aftertaste in her throat that reminded her of tears and vodka and the eyes of some dead Texan boy.

* * *

_What am I doing?_

Natasha had no answer for herself. She was in the living room downstairs, standing by the window and watching the Pacific Ocean smash against the cliffs in explosions of spray and sound. It had been two weeks since she moved into Stark's house, two weeks since she was faced with the quandary of her current mission. Two weeks since everything she had been sure of was dashed to froth like waves against rock. She had been so sure of what she wanted, ever since she left the Red Room. Freedom, that was all that mattered. That and doing whatever she needed to stay alive and stay on top of the game. She was independent and self-assured and didn't need anyone telling her what to do or who to kiss or kill.

Two years since she left the Soviet, two years spent establishing a reputation and making sure the world forgot about her blood Red roots. Then Hammer broke all that down with one phone call and a file in his hand. She almost laughed at the unfairness of it all. She had been too naive to think that the past could be buried like that, but she had entertained the notion anyway, believed in it like a child playing hide and seek, _you can't see me if I can't see you. _The only way she could keep everything she'd worked for together, was by killing Tony Stark.

Even _that_ had been fairly straightforward. A bullet between his eyes, or a blade across his throat, and the problem would have been solved, at least for the time being. It would have bought her the time she needed to get rid of Hammer and the threat he posed. She had a plan perfectly laid out, the time set to execute it, and then he had to go and get himself kidnapped. And she had to do everything she could to rescue him.

Rescue him, and kill him herself. Get the money, and her file, from Hammer. Keep her past buried, her future secure in money and reputation for being the one to take down an unkillable man. But then the man had to have an existential crisis now, had to remind her of a long-dead boy whose blood was on the first bills passed into her hands, whose memory she thought she'd left in the bottom of a vodka bottle.

No, she _had_ to kill Stark. There was no other way; Hammer had her file and as long as he did he held her strings. For herself, Stark had to die, no matter what he was going through, no matter how much he reminded her of that boy who did not deserve to die. She had to kill him; to cut his throat was to cut her strings.

Which begged the question – why hadn't she made a move, or even formulated a plan, while she was under his roof? It was straightforward – a bullet between his eyes, a blade across his throat, a drop of poison in his food. Then Hammer's hold on her would loosen.

But would it really? Hammer would still have strings on her, he wouldn't give up the file so easily. He could expose her or, more likely, continue using it for blackmail and turning her, the Black Widow, into his personal hitman. She could laugh at how ridiculous it was – the Black Widow, reduced to a puppet with a gun for some former boy genius, now slimy CEO. All because of a past she thought she'd severed from herself.

The sense of dread in Natasha's gut ebbed and crashed like the sea that smashed into solid rock, again and again, a storm in the making.

* * *

**Notes: **This is a bit of a filler chapter, and I'm sorry if it's a little repetitive, but I feel it was important for me to go into Natasha's mind and explore how she's feeling through all of this. Next chapter's going to have some more action.


	7. Chapter 7

"… And here are the things he'll have to sign when he emerges from the lab," Pepper was saying and Natasha nodded absently. She may be the greatest spy and assassin in the world, but that didn't make her impervious to boredom. And Pepper droning on infinitely was boredom in its more intense form. Natasha found herself noticing the shadow Pepper's gold brooch cast on her jacket, the manicured nails, and the growing mountain of papers she kept producing on the glass coffee table. "Make sure he gets this, it's what happened in the last board meeting, not that he's going to read it…"

Natasha didn't _dislike_ Pepper, per say. She knew that Tony would never have lasted this long as a human being, let alone Stark Industries' CEO, without Pepper. She just didn't particularly _like _Pepper either. She was so put together, so organized, so matter of fact. And then there was how she acted like she ran Tony's life – though Natasha had to admit – grudgingly – that that wasn't far from the truth.

After Natasha promised about a thousand times to get all those important files to Tony – when did she become a secretary anyway? – Pepper finally left, to run Tony's company while he was in his post-kidnapping and pre-returning-to-work void. Natasha grabbed the huge pile of documents and went down to the workshop where Tony had been holed up since last night.

It had been two weeks since Tony returned from Afghanistan. And in those two weeks he had completely unmade the man he was reputed to be, the man Natasha knew him to be both from reputation and from her time working for him. He no longer looked at her with ravenous desire; instead he was treating her like, for lack of a better word, a person. Like he wanted – _needed_– her approval and reassurance. Of what, she didn't know. He seemed lost, like his persona of asshole-billionaire-womanizer had been burnt away in Afghanistan and he wasn't sure what was left beneath that shell. And she could see that there was something underneath, like how a scab peeled off to reveal the baby-raw skin underneath. Something that was, if not innocent, then at least fragile and vulnerable, and it touched something in her, made her hesitate every time she got close to killing him.

The thought of killing Tony made her sick, like she had to kill that Texan boy all over again, even though there was nothing similar between the two. If she was honest with herself – which she was _not_, insisted a firm voice in her head – she would admit that she couldn't kill Tony even if she wanted to.

Natasha reached the end of the staircase and arrived at the workshop. She knocked at the glass door, a quick rap of her knuckles. He still hadn't given her the code yet. That hurt, a deep, ringing blow that echoed in her chest because it meant that he didn't trust her. She didn't know why it mattered; she's never wanted or needed anyone's trust. Trust shouldn't – _didn't –_ matter to people like her. But still, it hurt.

A soft whirring noise, a click, and Tony called from inside, "it's open." Natasha stepped into the lab. It smelled of chemicals and something burned – the combination of explosives that rung alarm bells in her head. Tony was sitting on the floor, bits and pieces including chemicals labelled "FLAMMABLE" and "CAUTION" spread out in front of him. Natasha said, "Have you been messing around with bombs?"

"Coffee?" he said by way of answer, getting up and sauntering over to the coffee machine in a relatively clean corner of the workshop. He grabbed two mugs and started the machine.

"Uh, sure," Natasha said. Caffeine was one of the substances she still felt the effects of; she'd been desensitized to the most common drugs as part of her training in the Widow program, but caffeine wasn't one of them.

"Pepper came by," she said, waving the stack of papers in her hand.

Tony rolled his eyes. "Thank God I missed her. I mean, she just yammers. On and on."

Natasha allowed herself a small smile. "She left these for you to sign." She placed the documents on the counter.

Tony groaned as he poured the coffee into the two mugs. Natasha went to stand next to him, adding sugar into the Grumpy Cat mug he now reserved for her, while Tony poured milk into his. They swapped; she added a touch of milk to her coffee and he was spooning enough sugar into his mug to kill a diabetic. Wordlessly, they took a sip of their coffee. Natasha enjoyed the quiet moment when it was just her and a perfect cup of coffee – and the genius next to her suffering from an existential crisis. She surprised herself with the spark of fondness she felt towards him.

Tony broke the silence. "Probably gonna regret asking this, but what did Pepper want?"

Natasha shrugged. "The usual – you know, company stuff you need to sign, legal stuff, press statements, how you're doing… speaking of which, how _are_ you doing?" She regarded him with her head tilted to one side, red hair falling just past her shoulder as she did so.

There was a brief flash of panic across his eyes that she would have missed if she hadn't been trained to look out for it. "I don't know," he said, his voice even – too even. "You've been living with me for – how long's it been, three weeks? You tell me."

Her lips twisted to the side. How did she answer that – _you're trying so hard to keep up appearances and pretend that you're okay but I see that you're not from that sad, broken, defeated way you look when you think I don't notice_? Or – _whatever happened to you in Afghanistan seriously fucked you up and you're doing all you can to forget it but you get nightmares and that's why you're becoming an insomniac who's living off caffeine and alcohol_?

She chose her words carefully. "You're different. You've changed, whatever happened in the desert, did that to you. Like it's put everything into perspective for you, and you hate what you see. You hate who you used to be, hate what you've done your whole life. But you don't want to know that, and you don't know what to do with that. And that's why you're down here, because machines make _sense_ to you, and that can help you forget what happened to you in Afghanistan."

He froze up at her words, staring at her with the wide eyes of a wild animal frozen in fear. "How did you kn –" he choked, and he pressed a hand hard against his mouth to stop the sob. But it wrenched its way out of his throat anyway, a broken, painful thing. Then came the tears and the graceless, hiccuping sobs.

Natasha laid a hand on his back. At the simple touch he collapsed into her arms, a shaking mess, and she held onto him with his head on her shoulder, his tears soaking her skin. She wove her fingers into his messy curls, holding, _cradling_ him like she could stop him from breaking apart.

She had no experience with comfort other than under a different name, a different persona, one who was supposed to seduce and kill the person she was comforting. In other words, no different from what she, Natalie Rushman, was doing now, she realized like a kick in her gut and she physically felt that the air was knocked out of her lungs, making her tighten her grip on Tony. But this was different, she knew that without a doubt. Tony might know her under a fake identity, but it wasn't Natalie Rushman comforting him now, but Natasha Romanov. This time, the care was genuine.

When he quieted he let go of her, looking embarrassed for his breakdown, and she released him, too. She hated herself; hated that she could so easily be compromised. Hated that she allowed herself to feel.

"I still see it," he confessed, his voice hoarse. "In my nightmares. People burning. dying. People I –" He broke off and let out a breath that shuddered his entire body. "Nat…" His eyes fixed at her and she was pinned to the spot. Maybe this was what her victims felt like when she climbed on top of them. Her heart was racing, and she knew what that meant even if she didn't want to acknowledge it. _Nat_, he called her. Natalie, or Natasha. Like he was calling to her, Natasha Romanov, inside the shell of Natalie Rushman.

His fingers, still shaking a little, wrapped around her wrist and he lowered his head towards her. With eyes half-closed she watched him, her head angling up of its own accord. Then her lips met his and they kissed – not the heated, passionate kind she had imagined they would share half-naked in a bed, but careful and hesitant and almost innocent, even though that was the last thing either of them were. It was simply a thing of comfort.

Then they parted and her self-hatred returned tenfold. But at the same time, she knew that if she was given another chance, given ten, she would make no other choice than to kiss him. "Tony…" she murmured. What did she want to say? _We can't_?_ I don't want to take advantage of you_? _I'm supposed to kill you but I don't think I can do it anymore_? Her brain was working too slowly to formulate the right response. All she could think of was how soft his lips were, how uncertain, like he expected her rejection.

When he looked down at her he was stripped of all his facades, as he so often was post-Afghanistan. Plain to see in his eyes was his vulnerability and uncertainty. Like he was asking, _was that okay_? The old Tony would never have asked that. He would just have taken what he wanted. The thought caused a pang of _something_ unrecognizable deep in her heart, maybe remorse or pity but flavored with the unfamiliar tang of tenderness. She gave him a small smile, she hoped that it was encouraging. Right now she felt like she had no control of her emotions, both inside and out.

She must have succeeded because his eyes lit up with hope, though it was tempered by his brokenness. He was fragmented into pieces, she knew; whoever he had been before was lost in Afghanistan, and this new Tony wasn't the man she was hired to kill. Before she could decide what she should say or do one of the robots in the workshop gave a sudden pitched series of beeps and whirls. They jumped. "Gosh, Dummy, what did you do now?" Tony fussed over the complaining robot like it was a pet. "Geez, kid, look at this mess, clean it up. Stop trying to set my stuff on fire." Natasha couldn't help but smile. He was finding who he was again in the workshop. This, at least, was a part of him that couldn't be taken away.

She mumbled something about leaving him to his work before moving to the door. "Nat," he called. She halted, turned around to look at him. "You asked me how I'm doing. And I think that – well, you saw how I am, I'm a mess." He gave a self-deprecating laugh. "But I'm getting better, I think. I'm dealing. Jarvis helps, he's coming along really well. He's – I'm upgrading him. That's the project I've been working on, since we got back. Well, one of them, anyway."

"Good," Natasha said. Then she surprised herself by continuing. "I think that – I mean, I want you to get better. Maybe not become exactly who you were before," she allowed with a wry smile, which he mirrored, "but become stronger and better and just... _yourself_."

"Yeah, well, you help, too," he answered, his expression soft and vulnerable. Natasha wanted to run back to him and throw her arms around his neck and kiss him again, this time tell him what exactly she felt. But she controlled her impulses, painfully aware that her expression betrayed her every thought, and walked out of the lab.

* * *

**Notes:**

I don't know how I feel about this chapter. I _am _proud of it but at the same time I feel like I could do better. I've been having writer's block lately and your reviews are the best cure for that, so please please please review.


	8. Chapter 8

One in the morning, and the mansion was quiet. Tony was down in the lab, and probably would tinker through the night; Natasha knew that he hadn't been sleeping, at least not much. She, on the other hand, was curled up in bed with a Fitzgerald novel she had found in the den. She was going to read for a couple more chapters before bed, get up early to work out in the gym downstairs, and then breakfast. And coffee; she was getting addicted to that stuff. She had to admit that she was enjoying the pattern life had settled into.

Then the door was thrown open with a _crash_ and she grabbed the gun under her pillow and pointed it at her intruder.

A choking gasp of terror and he stumbled backwards at the sight of her gun. It was Tony. Natasha threw the gun aside carelessly and ran to him. His hair was tousled and his bloodshot eyes carried heavy purple bags under them. He was drunk out of his senses, Natasha could tell by his almost comedically exaggerated movements and the strong smell of alcohol that clung to his skin. Even so, he had panicked immediately at the gun, like it was a gut reaction. The thought made her heart clench painfully. She grabbed his arm to steady him. "Hey, it's okay," she said. "It's okay, Tony, it's just me. You scared me, that's all." He clutched at her arm, searching her face with wild eyes. "It's okay, Tony," she repeated. "You're safe." He calmed down at her words and trembled all over, leaning his back against the wall. His eyes were still fixed on her face, but now that the panic passed out of them he looked strangely lucid.

"C'mon, let's get you to bed," she said. _And preferably a shower before_, she added mentally, wrinkling her nose. It wasn't just the alcohol; he smelled like grease and oil from the workshop. A hand on his back, she led him out of her room and down to corridor to his own.

"Nat," he said, his voice only a little slurred. " 'm not goin' t'bed." He sounded like a pouty child rejecting his bedtime, which would have been adorable if he hadn't looked so pitiful.

"Yes you are," she insisted. "When was the last time you slept?"

"D'snt matter," he said, waving his hand around wildly in an exaggerated dismissive gesture. "I go back."

"Go back?" Her eyebrows pulled down in the center of her forehead. Then it clicked. "Oh." Afghanistan. He must be having nightmares; anyone would after… after whatever the hell he went through. "It's not real, Tony. Those are nightmares, you survived. It's over."

He shook his head. "I go back," he insisted.

Natasha opened the door to his room and guided him in. "You need sleep," she told him.

He shook his head. "Need you," he said. He took her hand and tugged her towards him. Before she could resist his lips were on hers, hard and insistent. There was something desperate behind his kisses, not only of sexual need but of an emotional one, of wanting to be comforted and wanting to be wanted. Of needing the reassurance and acceptance, if only through sex.

Natasha let him kiss her and run his hands over her body, even kissed him back. If she was honest with herself, which she was starting to be, she wanted him, too. But she couldn't let it happen under these circumstances, not when he didn't know what he was doing. She couldn't take advantage of his emotional vulnerability and fuck him. She didn't know where this newfound sense of morality came from, but she pushed him away. The look of hurt on his face almost made her kiss him again and never stop until he was spent and sated between her legs. But just almost. "We can't," she said. "Not now." She didn't expect him to understand. So she took his hand in hers and led him to the bed. To her surprise he complied and flopped down on top of the covers fully clothed. As soon as his head hit the pillow he was asleep. Natasha pulled off his shoes and socks and draped a blanket over him.

When she tugged up the duvet he grabbed her wrist, making her jump. "Don't go," he said, brown eyes wide and childlike, utterly lost and vulnerable. She didn't have the heart to tell him that she was just about to leave.

"I'll be right here when you wake up," she promised. Seeming satisfied, Tony _hmm_ed and closed his eyes. He was snoring lightly within the minute. Natasha sat on the edge of the bed, watching his chest rise and fall with every breath. She was in too deep, she knew. Emotionally compromised. She had long since made up her mind not to kill Stark, but that didn't mean that she could be seduced by him. She remembered the first and last time she had been seduced – the flirtation that had been so new to her fifteen year old self, the way she drunk in his declarations of love, the triumphant look in his eyes when he climbed out of her bed, eager to return to his comrades to boast that he had taken Romanova's maidenhood. That had been the end of it, and she had resolved then to never be put in such a weak position again, to never be the prey but the predator.

Until now, when a genius billionaire playboy turned genius billionaire-with-an-identity-crisis made her heart throb with his pain. For so long she had been struggling between the choices of whether she should kill him, and now that she had firmly decided against it, she didn't know what her options were. She had, at first, planned to walk out of his life and leave him or someone else – Pepper or Rhodey – to glue him back together. But she understood him, she realized; she knew what it was like to be unmade, to have everything you cared for, everything you believed in, called into question and to realize that everything in your existence up to this point had been _wrong_. She understood that, understood Tony in a way no one else around him could remotely come close to.

And that was when what she was going to do became clear. She was going to stay, and stay as Natalie. She would be with Tony, piecing him back together, helping him reshape himself. She had once been Natalia, she was now Natasha, and she could become Natalie. Tony Stark was her ticket out of the killing, out of the blood and the screams of the innocent that still haunted her dreams. Maybe then they could put an end to each other's nightmares.

She must have fallen asleep sometime in the night. Her neck was sore from leaning against the headboard in an awkward angle when she woke up. It took her a moment to realize what had woken her; Tony was twitching in his sleep. His breath came in short, sharp intakes. Occasionally an arm would thrash and his face scrunched up, all the while mumbling unintelligibly.

"Tony." She grabbed his shoulder and shook him. "Wake up." She shook him again, rougher. He started awake with a gasp, his eyes darting in fear over her face for a few seconds before recognition set in. His breathing was still shallow and quick, and his forehead was shiny with sweat. "It's okay," Natasha said. "It was just a dream."

"Not a dream." His voice was deeper than usual, still thick with sleep and probably a hangover. "Memories." He rolled onto his back, his breathing deeper but still shaky.

"I know," she said with a grimace. "I've had shit happen to me, too." Tony gave her a surprised look and she added quickly, "but probably not as bad as yours." She was Natalie, she reminded herself; Natalie who hadn't been through a spy training programme as a child, Natalie who's never had to kill prisoners at the age of nine; Natalie who didn't have to fight through years of brainwashing to become her own person. She wasn't sure how much her expression betrayed, but Tony seemed to recognize something in her face and nodded, believing her.

"Do you still have them?" he said so softly that she could only just hear it in the still silence of the bedroom. "The nightmares?"

"Sometimes." The thought of it sent a shudder down her spine. Tony must have felt it because he lay a hand on hers.

"But not as much as before?" he said, a trace of hope in his voice.

"No, not as much," she confirmed, the ghost of a smile on her lips.

"How'd you do it?"

"Time, I guess," she said, aware of how clichéd that was. "And I knew that what had happened to me – that was all in the past. I was free, a blank slate, and I could start over again."

"I wish I'm free." Tony sighed heavily. "Free to start over. To make things right." He met her eyes with a piercing look. "Do you know what I've done? My company? That's one of the things I've been working on since I got back – finding out what my company's done behind my back, or what I've sanctioned without realizing the consequences. I'm going to be responsible now," he vowed. "I'm going to make things right. Start Stark Industries over."

"And you can," she told him, an invisible pressure squeezing her lungs.

His dark eyes glimmered in the dimness of the room with almost childlike hope. "You really think so?"

"Yeah," she said, conviction in her words. "I think that if you stick to it – if you don't back down, if you trust in your gut even when the world tells you you're wrong, you can do it." She had done the same, leaving all she had been taught was true when she left the Red Room. But she had swapped her Soviet career for one as a freelance assassin, a calling no more virtuous than that she had been trained for. She could only hope that Tony had found the moral compass she never possessed.

* * *

**Notes:**

I'm so sorry for the delay! I've been super busy with my internship, my other writing – both fanfics and original stuff – and life in general. This is a very very mreh chapter that I kind of threw together, it's so filler-y but I felt it was important. The next one will be a major one, which I will try to upload asap.


	9. Chapter 9

Natasha was glad their coffee ritual wasn't broken the next morning. She had gone back to her own room to shower and change, and then met Tony at the kitchen downstairs. The sight of him caused a curious fluttering lightness in her heart. He had the coffee machine going and was digging between half-empty cereal boxes. Natasha chuckled at how ridiculous he looked, a grown man, and a genius at that, with his head stuck in his cupboard struggling to find his choice of sugary breakfast. But at least he was eating; that was an improvement.

"Aha!" Tony drew out a box of pop tarts, triumphant. Natasha shook her head and laughed; an actual, genuine, free laugh. She hadn't been able to do that for years. "Last box," he said to her. He opened it, peered in and wrinkled his nose. "And only half full." He held the box out to her. "Want one?"

"No, I'm good, don't want to take your precious pop tarts if half a box is all we have left," she said.

He waved his hand dismissively. "Nah, it's cool. I can get Happy to pick some up later."

Natasha shook her head and declined again, going to find some cereal. "You use that man way too much," she told him. Tony shrugged, unapologetic as he stuck his pop tarts in the toaster.

"You sleep okay last night?" she asked him. "I mean, um, after you woke." The coffee machine came to a stop and Natasha poured the rich brown liquid into a mug. She filled Tony's Batman mug, too, while he mixed a touch of milk and sugar into hers – just the way she liked it.

"Yeah," Tony said as the toaster _dinged_. He reached for his pop tarts. It burned his hand and he gave a little yelp, waving it around to alleviate the pain. "It's like I had an epiphany. I know what I need to do now."

"Good," Natasha smiled. She took a sip of her coffee. Perfect. Her smile widened.

"I'm gonna turn Stark Industries around. We're not going to be doing weapons anymore. I had a sort of eureka moment down in that cave," _They kept him in a cave_, Natasha thought; it was one more thing that she knew about him than she did before. Tony continued through a mouthful of strawberry flavored pop tart, "that I can take what I have with Stark Industries, and use it for good."

"Oh?" Natasha's eyebrows rose.

"First we're going to stop manufacturing weapons," he said matter-of-factly, but Natasha didn't miss the almost maniacal gleam in his eyes. "Then we're going to invest in tech. We can incorporate technology and stuff people actually _need _– not like bigger phones or flatter TVs or whatever, but stuff that would actually make a difference. Say like, I dunno, energy efficient cars or, like, clothes and shoes that grow with kids so children living in poverty don't have to keep buying new ones, or ways to make water clean. Stuff that can actually help people instead of destroying things. And –" he paused and looked at Natasha, like he was considering saying something important. "I had a breakthrough, with arc reactor technology."

"Wasn't it supposed to be a dead end?" Howard Stark had made the arc reactor that powered the company decades ago, but it had been for the press more than anything else. The thing cost more to run than it saved.

"Yeah – but I found some of my dad's old stuff in the basement," Tony said. "I've been reading his notes about the arc reactor, and I think I know how to make it better. It could even be the solution to clean energy."

"Wow." Natasha raised her eyebrows. "You sure that you want to take the company down this path?"

Tony's brow furrowed. "You don't think it's the right direction?"

"What I think isn't important," she said. "What _you_ think is. You have to be sure about this. It's not like you can back up and go, haha, just kidding, we're back to weapons now."

"Well, technically I could," Tony grimaced. "But I'm not going to. I know that it's the right thing to do and for once in my life I'd just like to do that. Wipe out the red."

Natasha nodded. "So would I." LIke him, she's never been good; her life of murder had been decided for her since before she could think for herself. She might have stopped being a puppet for her Soviet masters, but that didn't mean that she had stopped killing, only she was doing it for money instead of out of mindless obedience. She had painted blood all over herself and never stopped to think that she could be any different, not when killing was all she ever knew – killing and fighting and seducing. But she wanted to be different. She wanted to live without blood and guilt clogging her senses and pulling her to lie in a bloody grave with her victims. She wanted to be able to sleep without nightmares. She wanted to lie next to a soft, breathing body, not for sex but for love.

Tony took a deep breath, raked his hands through his hair, and looked up at him with surprising sincerity in his eyes. "And I want you to do it with me."

"What?" Her heart almost stopped in her chest.

"You and me, Nat. I –" he looked so vulnerable and uncertain "– I need you to be on my side, _by_ my side, even if no one else will be."

Her voice was so small she wondered whether he could hear it. "Why me?"

"You get it. I don't know why, or how, but you do." He stepped closer to her, and took her hand. "Nat, I don't think I could do it, stick through with this, without you to back me up. And I want to be – not _good_, I'm too far gone for that, but at least _better_."

"So do I," she admitted, against her better judgement. Her heart ached to say yes to his proposal; to say yes and buy her ticket out of the shadowy existence, the non-life, of the last twenty two years.

But it wasn't fair to him, when their relationship had started as a lie, even though that was the farthest thing from what it was now. When the threat of Hammer was hanging over her head like a puppeteer. "But we can't."

He looked so crushed, all the light going out of his eyes like the moment he first got back from Afghanistan, that she felt like she was stabbed in the heart. "Why not?" His voice cracked.

She blinked. "Because you snore when you sleep." She hated herself, absolutely despised how much of a coward she was, for lying to him. But he smiled, a fragmented and tentative one, yet a smile nonetheless. "Is that a yes, Rushman?" he said.

As she crashed her lips against his resolutely, she became Natalie Rushman. Her past was gone, all her ties to it severed. A single thought rose in her mind, clear and triumphant.

_There are no strings on me._

* * *

Notes:

Apologies again for updating so late. Work is a bitch, and so is writer's block. But the best part of the story is coming soon, I promise!

And happy birthday to my best friend! She's supported me no matter what and never judged me, when that was (and still is) something I really needed in my life.


	10. Chapter 10

Life was good, Natalie mused as she reclined in her lover's arms. He was wearing nothing but a tank top, and she was wearing his shirt. They were in bed, sheets mused and sweaty from sex, watching a movie on the widescreen TV. They had somehow ended up having sex in the middle of it. Now, clothes discarded around the room and their legs tangled together, they continued watching the movie.

Tony's tank top was a little damp from sweat. He never took his shirt off during sex, never undressed facing Natalie, never got in the shower with her. She was no fool, she knew that it was deliberate. But she didn't ask him about it, and he didn't ask her about the scars she had on her body. That was good; they respected that the other had a past, and that was allowed to stay private. Natalie certainly couldn't have explained those scars that she got in another lifetime, one where she was meant to kill her lover.

That felt like years ago, even though it had only been two months. Another life, just as before that there was yet another life, one where she was not a person but a weapon. It had been so long since she thought of that lifetime, that it felt like someone else's life. It _was_ someone else's life, a life that belonged to a girl named Natalia Romanova.

"You're miles away." Tony's voice and his caress along her side brought her back to the present, to Natalie Rushman.

"Yeah, kinda got lost in my thoughts." She smiled up at him.

He chuckled. "Yeah, I could tell."

"Did I ignore you?"

He fake-pouted. "Totally."

She grinned. "Aww, poor baby." She tousled his hair. "What did I miss?"

He shrugged. "I don't know, wasn't really paying attention either," he said, and she laughed, the sound deep and husky and genuine. He kissed the tip of her nose ."I adore you, you know that, right?" Despite the casual tone, there was an emotional vulnerability in his eyes, the way they wavered, unsteady, studying her face and trying to gauge her reaction, like he was waiting for her to reject him.

She smiled up at him. "Of course I do."

Relief flooded his eyes and he kissed her. She deepened the kiss and he reciprocated, angling his head for better access and cradling her jaw. "Ready for round two so soon?" she drawled, her lips barely leaving his.

"If you are," he replied, pushing the shirt from her shoulders. Natalie grinned and crushed her lips against his again. His hands pushed at her shoulders and her shirt – his shirt – slipped off easily. she untangled her arms from around his neck to shrug the shirt off. Her upper body bare, she fisted her hands at the bottom of his shirt and started pulling it up – but he pushed her away and turned aside. Her lips were still tingling from his, but her lust had disappeared. Tony was looking down at the sheets, his face dark with embarrassment and self-loathing. Natalie felt the sharp sting of guilt. She had acted on impulse, forgotten that Tony never took off his shirt. She had intruded on that secrecy that shielded their pasts from one other.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice low. "That was my – "

"No." His voice was hoarse. "No, it was – I couldn't –"

"It's okay," she said, her attempt to sound lighthearted making her heart sink even lower. "Let's just forget about that, 'kay?" She scooted closer. Tony looked up and met her gaze with a faint glimmer of hope in his brown eyes, and gave a tiny nod. She leaned in and gave him a chaste kiss on the lips, before settling down next to him again. She put on the shirt he had taken off, without caring to button it, and resumed her earlier position with her head against his chest.

Tony's arms came around her naturally and she linked one of her hands with his. "You're an amazing woman, Nat," he said softly and she smiled, though whether it was for herself or him she didn't know.

"Ms Rushman," Jarvis broke in, sounding embarrassed. "Terribly sorry to interrupt, but your phone is ringing in your room."

"Oh. Thanks, Jarvis." Natasha made to get up. Tony fastened the arm around her waist with a protesting sound. "Sorry, baby," she apologized, giving him a quick peck on the lips. She pushed his arm off and he complied without further protest, saying, "Just be sure to get back here as soon as you're done."

Natalie went down the hallway to her unused room. Sure enough, her phone was ringing – but it was her work phone, the one she hadn't touched for weeks, and had checked only sporadically to make sure there were no messages.

Caller ID: Unknown.

Her heart was pounding as she put it to her ear and hit answer. "Yes?" Her throat was too dry.

"Ms Romanova." The oily voice in her ear was all too familiar to her, and it confirmed her worst fear. "I was ensured that you're the best at what you do. And I trusted you to finish your assignment."

Her heart thudded in her chest. Her lungs were too tight, constricted. It became difficult to draw in oxygen.

"I think I've given you more than sufficient time – and I'm not very patient, you'll find out." Hammer paused and Natalie could almost see his smirk. "I wonder how _Tony dearest_ would feel if the media caught wind of his new girlfriend's past?"

"Don't," she blurted out. _Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ she thought angrily to herself. So careless. Thinking that running away meant that she would forget, and that _her _forgetting meant that the world would forget. She should have taken care of Hammer as soon as she decided not to kill Tony. Instead she spun a messy web and got tangled in its threads.

"Don't?" the smooth voice all but purred in her ear and she wanted to strangle him. "But you see, Ms Romanova, I'm so tempted to… let slip something. And what can you do to stop me?"

"I'll kill Stark," she promised, her heart heavy as lead. "You have my word."

"No offense, Natalia, but your word means shit to me." His voice took on a growl. "I trusted you and you left me waiting. And I am not a man you want to keep waiting."

"I know, I know." She was grasping at straws. She was a fool, she thought she was safe, thought she had everything under control when she had just been lucky. And now that was coming to bite her in the ass. Her strings were tightening, and the illusion of control slipped from her. "A week," she said. "I'll finish the job in a week."

"Given your track record so far, I wouldn't believe you anymore," he said. "But since I do have this juicy little file in one hand and the phone numbers of every major newspaper in my other… I'll trust you one last time. Finish it by tomorrow. Don't let me down, Ms Romanova." He was smiling and her hand curled into a fist. "You see, things are so much easier when you cooperate. You'll be hearing from me soon." And the line clicked dead.

A voice growled from behind her. "Guess I should've seen this coming."

She whirled around to see Tony glaring at her from the doorway, arms crossed in front of his chest. Her heart fell._ Shit._

"Let me explain –"

"I think I've heard enough," he snarled. She could see the coiled muscles beneath his skin. "Let _me_ explain, and tell me if I get anything wrong. Justin Hammer hired you to kill me. You come into my company as a bodyguard, pretend to understand me, sweet-talk your way into my mind and my heart – and then you'll kill me when you've earned my trust."

"Not quite," she managed to get out, but he ignored her. He stayed at the door, facing her with his arms crossed. His coldness cut her like a knife; she would have preferred it if he shoved at her, hit her, slammed her against the walls with his hands around her neck. She could fight fire with fire, but she was powerless against this chilling anger.

"_Nothing_ about you is real. I bet your real name isn't Natalie Rushman, either. I don't know what that is yet, but I will in about ten minutes. Jarvis is running your face over the Internet – remember those upgrades I told you about? –and he's looking for your real name now. Not that it matters. All that does is that you're the Black Widow, the elite assassin behind a dozen of the cleanest murders in this country, and possibly a handful overseas, too. You're good; you're the best and that's why Hammer contacted you."

"Yes." There was no denying that.

His next words hurt her like a hand crushing her trachea. "Jarvis has a gun trained on you right now, and I'm really tempted to let him fire it. So give me one good reason not."

_Did these two months mean nothing to you? Do you care so little that you could end me so easily?_ She wanted to scream. But she also knew that this was her one chance at life – not only to keep her lungs breathing and her heart beating, but also her one chance to truly live rather than simply survive. She had to think her answer through carefully. She could tell him more lies, deny all he had said, make up excuses, even tell him that she was a double agent protecting him from his kidnappers in Afghanistan. But she couldn't do that. Not if she wanted to put her past behind her and truly live. Not if she loved him.

Natasha Romanov took a deep breath and kept her expression neutral. "I've had half a dozen chances to kill you that first night we had dinner, and at least a hundred since I moved into your house. So let me tell you why I haven't."

"Please do," he said, courtesy dripping mockingly from his words like venom.

"Okay," Natasha said. Slowly, so as not to make Jarvis shoot her, she sat down on her bed, the bed she hadn't slept in in weeks, not since she moved into Tony's. "This is going to take a while. So take a seat." Tony moved towards her bed gingerly, like he didn't trust her not to pull a gun on him. Or maybe it was himself that he didn't trust, not when he was in such close proximity to her. She smiled, but it came out as more of a bitter grimace. "I promise I won't kill you."

"You promised Hammer you would less than five minutes ago. I really don't trust you right now."

Her eyebrow cocked up. "I don't blame you," she acknowledged with a tilt of her head. "But like I said, if I wanted to I'd have done it already."

The answer seemed to be enough to pique his curiosity and keep her alive, at least for the time being. He sat on the opposite end of the bed, as far away from her as he could be.

Not daring to hope, hardly daring to even think, Natasha began, "The name I was given is Natalia Romanova, though I have gone by Natasha Romanov for many years. I was raised in the Red Room in Soviet Russia, trained in murder, espionage, and seduction. I was to be a spy and assassin. A weapon…"

It took the better part of an hour, but she told him everything. Her Red Room training, her career in the KGB, her defection from Russia, the years as a mercenary. Last of all, she told him about Hammer, and the file he had on her past that he controlled her with. As she told her tale, she watched Tony's expression, angry and betrayed, turn into wariness that was softened by – was that care she saw, or did she imagine it?

"I thought that if I became Natalie, not only wear her name and her life but actually become her, then Hammer would forget about me, and I could have a fresh start with you," she finished. "It was wishful thinking on my part, but for these past months I really believed that I could have that. A clean slate, a normal life. Happiness." A corner of her mouth quirked up in a sardonic half smile. "I let my guard down, and now he's got me again."

Tony wore a stony expression like a visor. "Even if I believe this – this absurd, impossible, fantastic story of yours," – he let out a hollow laugh – "and I do. I shouldn't because you're probably lying to me again, but I believe you."

Those words drove straight her fear-numbed heart and she let out a shaky sob of relief. She felt like putty; she was so limp with relief that he could have fashioned her into any shape and she would have bent. He believed her, and that made all the difference in the world. She was not alone, not fighting enemies and suspicions on all sides but fighting back-to-back with a hard-won ally. She had never cared much about anyone's trust before. She was used to working alone, neither giving her trust nor asking for others' in return. But she wanted, _needed_ Tony to trust her. Because his mistrust, his hate, hurt more than anything in the world.

"You're probably going to use me and throw me over the first chance you get," he was saying, "but God help me, I can't _not _believe you."

"I'm not going to," she reassured him quickly, reaching out to put her hand on top of his – but stopped at the last minute and laid her hand on the bed. With stiff movements, he slowly turned and faced her.

"Why not?" he murmured, so softly his lips barely moved. The brown irises were almost quivering in his eyes, as they met hers for the first time since she told her tale. She could see the wall he put up breaking, hope shining through like a sunrise behind dark clouds.

"Because not everything was a lie," she replied. Her heart was written over her face, she knew, for the first time in her memory she wore no masks to protect herself, let another look into her heart and see her secrets.

"How do I know that?" he questioned, his voice so soft that she could barely hear it even in the hushed room.

She didn't have an answer for that, at least not one that would convince him. So she brought her hand up to cup his cheek and kissed him chastely but firmly. It wasn't a passionate kiss, but one that was a reassurance and a vow. Tony was unresponsive under her touch, but after a few second he melted and his lips moved against hers, giving her his trust and a promise of his own.

When they pulled back, Tony's eyes were shining and Natasha was aware that hers were pricking with unshed tears. She blinked them away; the last time she had cried had been after her first freelance job, when she was haunted by the memory of a Texan boy. This moment with Tony, however, was as far from that as possible. Then, she had felt that she was tied to an anchor and was sinking, sinking, into the depths of her own guilt and self-loathing. Now, she was floating, free, relieved of the burden of her secrets by sharing them with Tony.

But she wasn't really free, not yet. She may have confessed everything to Tony, and he might have accepted her. But there were still loose ends, strings that would come back if she didn't end this properly.

"I can fix this," she promised vehemently. "This… deal I have with Hammer. I'll fix things so that we can – so that I'll never have to kill anyone I don't want to again."

His brown eyes were molten chocolate as he said softly, "Do what you have to. I trust you."

_I trust you._ Those words echoed in Natasha's head. When was the last time someone had said those words to her? A long time ago; and the last time they had meant it? Even longer, maybe never. Trust, given freely from a man she'd lied to and seduced. Remorse griped her stomach like a cramp. Trust was what she could offer him in return – trust and love. But she had never given either without being burned, and then when she learned her lesson she stopped trusting or loving, bearing the scars of her naiveté. Was she too screwed up to give either?

Maybe she was, but she at least could try. This was her chance to be free, and the only chance she had ever gotten of being happy. There was one more thing she had to do – she had to cut the strings on her.

* * *

**Notes:**

The end is coming... three more chapters! (hopefully)

I'm sorry for the long wait but I'll try to finish in a month.


	11. Chapter 11

Natasha crouched behind a six-foot-tall statue in the garden. Abstract art; probably something Hammer thought was deep and philosophical when it really was tasteless. The moonlight glanced off the metal surface. A cold light, dark silver and shadowy in its glint. The light from the house was, by contrast, warm and golden. It seeped from the windows and glass walls like lifeblood. Another light, a minuscule red dot, winked at Natasha from the roof of the porch. Another from the second floor. And one more at the corner of the building. Cameras. She had to avoid them; there could be no evidence, not even the hint of a shadow, that she'd ever been there.

She was good at that. She'd done it before, and she would do it again. _One last time_, she thought, _one last time so I can be free._ Then she would cut the strings tying her to the past, ending her two-decade long career of murder and assassination. And after – she wasn't sure what she would do after, but she knew that Tony would be at her side. That alone made the future brighter than she ever remembered it being.

But for now, she focused on what she knew, what she had known her whole life. The mission. Only this time it wasn't a mission or a job. It was the first time she would kill of her own accord, not because someone ordered her to.

She watched the cameras for a moment, mentally picking a route that would avoid all the cameras. Hammer was thorough, she would give him that; it was impossible to avoid the red blinking eyes of the cameras. Unless… there was another way. She mapped the route in her mind. It was risky, he might see her coming if he was smart or lucky, but the cameras wouldn't. And that was more important, because video tapes could tell stories dead men couldn't.

She turned around and ran back the way she came, vaulting over the pitifully short fence at the front of the lawn. She landed soundlessly on the other side and ran around the corner of the house, leaving a wide gap between herself and the building just in case. When she got to the back she dove into the grove of trees that lined the back of the house. With the cover of thick foliage, she could breathe a little easier. But she slowed her steps down, taking care where she set down her boots. The ground was covered in a layer of brittle autumn leaves that crackled with her every step, giving away her location. Not that Hammer would notice, but painful experience had taught her that it was better to be safe than sorry.

A fence, made of wooden boards six and a half feet in height, separated the woods from Hammer's property. On the other side of the fence was the house. The back wall of its upper level was made of glass, a huge window that extended from ceiling to floorboard across the entire breadth of the house, looking out at the woods. Natasha could clearly see Hammer standing there, a glass of wine in hand as he looked out of the window. From her point on the ground Natasha could see an office chair and the corner of a desk behind him. His office. The room next to that had a balcony that extended over the garden, with black iron railings curled in a psuedo-Rococo style. That was what she was aiming for.

She found a thick tree near the fence and tested the lower branches for stability. It seemed sturdy enough, and from what she could see in the limited light, some of the higher branches should be able to hold her weight. She grabbed a low-hanging branch and pulled herself up. She remembered training in the Red Room – rock climbing. She was one of the smallest girls, short and skinny for her age and puny next to the older, brawny girls, but she had always been good at rock climbing. It was simple – one handhold after another, the distance to the ground growing behind her, until she got to the top, looked back and saw the way she had come. And that was her life – one mission after another, one kill after another, until her past was littered with blood-stained corpses.

_Not anymore, _she thought with fierce determination as she pulled herself up the tree, her muscles singing from the pull of the familiar movements. She would cut away her past, wash away the blood… with this last kill, this last blood. She reached a branch strong enough to hold her weight and high enough for her purpose. She straddled it and scooted forward; this was the part she had never done before and the riskiest part of this kill. The moment she emerged from the cover of the leaves, Hammer could see her coming.

She scooted until she was near the end of the branch. It started dipping with her weight, it wouldn't be high enough for much longer, she had to make her move. Gripping the branch tightly with her hands she brought her feet up on it so she was crouching, then she let go, ran two steps and leapt. She flew over the fence, barely managed to grab onto the balcony railing. Her chest banged hard against the concrete of the balcony, knocking the air out of her lungs and she almost let go out of reflex. But she didn't, instead tightening her grip. She reached up, grabbed the top bar of the railing and hauled herself over it. She tumbled onto the balcony, breathing heavily. She was in the house and as far as she knew, Hammer didn't notice.

She gave herself ten seconds to catch her breath before she opened the sliding glass doors and stepped in soundlessly, her gun in her hands. It was the bedroom, with a king-sized four-poster bed against one wall. _Talk about ostentatious_, Natasha thought with a smirk. She cocked her gun, ready to shoot. She made her way out to the corridor. It ran around the edge of the house in a rectangle, open in the middle to look down at the floor below. She had seen Hammer in one of the rooms along the back of the house, so she crept along the wall, listening before each door for sounds of movement.

The first two doors were quiet, but behind the third door there were sounds of footsteps, movement, rustling. _Bingo._ She laid a hand on the doorknob and slowly turned it. She gave the door a nudge and, in slow motion, it swung open. Hammer looked up with a little shriek of surprise. His face was pale as the papers in his hand as he recognized her. He stuttered, trying to form words but his tongue and lips wouldn't move.

Natasha stalked in like a cat, a feral, dangerous jaguar with her green eyes narrowed at her prey. Her gun was held in one hand in front of her, its barrel aimed at Hammer. She stepped forward, an arm's length away from Hammer and her gun a kiss away from his forehead. "Wait wait wait wait!" Hammer managed to squeak in as undignified a manner as possible. "We can talk this –"

"There are no strings on me," she snarled before she pulled the trigger. The bullet sliced through the air and tore through the middle of Hammer's forehead. His blood and brains exploded behind him like a scarlet flower in bloom, before it wilted and splattered unceremoniously.

The corpse that had been Justin Hammer was still in his chair, head thrown back, glassy eyes blank as they stared up at the ceiling. Natasha was suddenly aware of the mini crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, the way its too-bright light cast everything in a dream-like glow that made her feel light-headed. She was aware of the thud-thud of the blood in her ears, vibrating through her skull like a drum. She reached out to the file in Hammer's lifeless hand – the papers of her birth and her training, her life and her past. They were splattered with red drops. _Bloodsoaked_, she thought wryly. _How appropriate._

Her hand was shaking, she noted with detachment as she reached for the papers. And flecked with blood, too, just like the papers she held now. She closed the file. She would take it with her – take it and destroy it. This last piece of evidence to her crimes, her last ties to her past. She would burn it and free herself. This knowledge was like a spark in her mind, a spot of clarity that she held onto amidst the haze.

It was time to go home.

* * *

**Note:**

And here it is, the chapter we've all been waiting for. In which Natasha is a total badass and Hammer is a wimp.

Again, I'm sorry for the long wait but I've had a lot going on these couple of weeks.

There'll be one more chapter after this one and (fingers crossed) it'll be up in two weeks or so.


	12. Chapter 12

Natasha was shaking by the time she got back home. Tony's home, yes, but hers, too, now. The door was open and Tony was waiting for her before she even made it down the driveway. A sharp intake of breath, wide eyes, as he lingered in the doorway studying her. She walked towards the open door warily, fearing the unreadable expression on his face, dreading the judgement that experience told her would come even when she knew, or rather hoped, that it wouldn't.

When she got to the top of the stairs Tony crushed her against him in a hug. It was fierce, and protective, and hurt just a little but that was good. It meant that she was alive, that she was feeling. Even if she couldn't bring her arms up to hug him because they were numb and wouldn't move when she told them to.

He pulled back and looked at her with liquid brown eyes she felt she could drown in the depths of. With deliberate tenderness, he cradled her face like she was a precious, breakable thing that he couldn't believe was his. "I trust you," he murmured. "I still do." She let out a shaky breath. There was blood on his hands from where he touched her cheek, held her hand. It must have come from her skin; she hadn't been aware that Hammer's blood had splattered onto her. She touched her own cheek and her fingers came away stained scarlet. But that might have been because her hands were bloody already.

"Come on," Tony said, his voice husky with uncharacteristic gentleness. "Let's get you cleaned up." Natasha let him lead her to the bathroom, where he sat her on the edge of the tub and he knelt before her with a wet towel. He started with her hands, drawing the cloth over her blood-speckled hands. They were still shaking minutely as he held them in one hand and the towel in the other. When they were clean he held the towel under running water and she watched the downpour run red when it met the towel. But before long the water returned to a clear rush, the blood nothing but a memory, and Tony lifted the towel again, squeezed it so that it wasn't dripping.

This time he lifted it to her face and pressed a corner against her cheek. It was cold and it she flinched instinctively from it, but he kept going, wiping the blood from her skin. The damp cloth was refreshingly cool after the initial shock, and she let him clean her up for her. It was the first time anyone was there to take care of her after a kill. She's always had to wash the blood off on her own, stitch up her own wounds, drown her guilt and angst in vodka.

His touch was so gentle, the kind of gentleness that only came with treachery in her experience, but she knew that he wouldn't betray her. She didn't know whether this was the logical conclusion, only that she knew it in her heart. With the towel he traced the edges of her nose, the lines of her lips. His touch seemed to thaw her, release her from her dazed state and inch by inch, draw her back towards the present.

"It's like deja vu," he said, breaking the silence. "I remember you doing this for me."

The memory flooded into her mind involuntarily – the Iraqi desert, the noise of the chopper in her eardrums and the smell of sweat in her nostrils. Tony sitting in front of her, his appearance haggard and a haunted look in his eyes. Only now it was her with the haunted look, she knew with sudden, detached clarity. Instead of the blistering desert through her boots it was cool bathroom tiles under her bare feet in Tony's Malibu mansion; instead of the deafening roar of the helicopter it was the soothing, ever-present rush of the ocean. She took a deep breath and breathed in the clean air of safety. Of home. "Yeah," she said, her eyes focusing on Tony's face before her. "I do too."

His face relaxed into a smile of relief. It warmed her heart, and the corners of her lips lifted effortlessly. "There, you're clean," he said, putting the towel under the running water once more. Again, the water ran red but the blood was washed away in moments.

"Do you think it works like that?" she blurted out. At his puzzled look she said, "That this makes me clean? That blood can be washed away that easily?"

He looked at her gravely, his eyes a battlefield of emotions. "I don't know," he said, "I wish it could." He gave a heavy sigh and she was reminded that his hands were as bloody as hers, maybe even worse because the things they made had claimed thousands of lives even he could not know about. He seemed to shake himself back to the present as he stood up and said, "Do you need a moment?" He gestured to the bathroom and she nodded. "I'll be outside." He turned to go.

"Wait!" She grabbed his hand and stood so she could look him straight in the eye when he turned back around to face her. She took a deep breath and let it out shakily. With it, she felt the last remnants of numbness leave her. She looked up at Tony with unguarded emotion. "Thank you." She didn't have any other words to tell him what she felt, and she hoped that he would understand with those simple words, how his trust and his love were the most precious things she had ever possessed, and that she would never betray him or make him regret giving those to her.

He answered with a "yup" so soft that he all but mouthed it, and she knew that he understood the feeling behind her words.

"Wait for me in the bedroom," she said. "I'll be a moment."

"Okay." There was a warm spark in his eye. He squeezed her hand and left, shutting the door behind him.

Once she was alone Natasha looked at her face in the mirror. Physically it hadn't changed – the same green eyes, full lips, straight nose. But in her face she saw something that hadn't been there before, or something she hadn't allowed herself to see before – an openness, almost like a vacancy, waiting for an opportunity. A space to write the future.

The future that those who made her into a weapon had never intended her to have, but she had gotten all the same. The future she had bargained, fought, killed for. She reached out and her fingers met that in the silvery surface. With resolution she declared to herself, "There are no strings on me." Even with her hushed tone the words echoed back at her in the bathroom, and she knew that her battle was over. For the first time, her future and her freedom belonged to her.

* * *

**Notes:**

This was supposed to be the last one, but it got so long that I decided to split it into two.


	13. Chapter 13

Tony was waiting for her on the bed. There was a smudge of dried blood on his t-shirt from when he had touched her bloodied hands. "Heyya," he said gently as she came out of the bathroom. He extended a hand and she took it, letting him draw her down onto the bed next to him.

"You okay?" he asked, running his thumb over the back of her hand. Natasha looked up from their joined hands to Tony's face, his features soft with concern. She wanted to tell him that she was fine, that she was free now and that she loved him. But she couldn't find the right words, so she cupped his face with a hand cleaned of blooed and kissed him. Not a soft, careful, hesitant kiss, but one that was firm and reassuring and sure of what she wanted.

He was taken aback for a moment, but then his lips yielded to move against hers, strong and steady without being forceful. His hands came up to cradle her head and his fingers carded through her hair. She could feel their bodies humming with the same rhythm, like two guitar strings. He pulled back, his lips leaving hers reluctantly, and she opened her eyes to look at him. "Natasha," he said. The sound of her real name on his lips grounded her to real life; this amazing, too-good-to-be-true life that somehow was hers now.

"Yes?" she asked, expectant.

"I –" He began to speak, but closed his mouth again, the struggle to speak clear in his anguished gaze. "You've been honest with me," he said slowly, and Natasha could tell that each word was deliberate. "Now I gotta – there's stuff I haven't told you and I want you to know because I don't want there to be secrets anymore." The words came faster now, occasionally tripping over each other as they formed from syllables into meaning.

"You don't have to," Natasha said. It wasn't easy, coming out of the shadows, and she never would have unless she was forced to. Tony had his secrets, and even though hers were dragged into the light it didn't mean that his had to be.

"But I do," he insisted, his brown eyes deep with emotion. She bit her lip, and nodded. That was okay, too, if he wanted to tell her. Secrets were hard things to keep and harder things to reveal. She waited for him to continue, but he didn't. Instead, he he gripped the bottom of his shirt and slowly, like he was peeling off a scab, he pulled it off over his head. He bared his torso to her for the first time, his eyes downcast to avoid watching her reaction.

She knew then why he never took his shirt off. His chest was branded. Raised scar tissue, pink and angry, in the shape of ten little rings that formed a circle around a pair of crossed scimitar blades. In the middle of his chest, right on his sternum. Natasha raised her fingers. "Can I…?" she said and he gave a slight nod that was barely a twitch of his head, still avoiding her eyes. She laid her fingertips on the scar. The skin was toughened, like on any scar, but she could almost feel it simmering with heat from the branding iron. "They did this to you? In Afghanistan?" Her voice was coiled tight with rage.

He gave another nod. "That was one of the first things they did after they took me."

Her anger was a dark tangle of shadows that burned in her chest. How dare they touch him like that? Like he was an animal for slaughter? Like he was a _thing _that they owned? "I'll kill them," she whispered fiercely, her face dark with protectiveness and vehemence. "How dare they?"

He shook his head and closed her small hand, the hand on his scar, in his own large, calloused one. "Too late," he said, his voice raw with pain. Chilling realization crept up on her. The hair on the back of her neck rose and she involuntarily tightened her grip on Tony's hand. "You –" she cut herself off. She didn't judge him, was in no position to, but he would hear an accusation in her voice and that was the last thing he needed.

Tony gave a bitter smile. "How did you think I got out?" he said. "They took me, and kept me in a cave for weeks. They wanted me to make a missile for them. Gave me scrap metal, bullets, ammunition… basically, everything I needed to escape. I set a trap for them. Made bullets for a machine gun, and a handful of bombs. When guards came to check on our progress we – me and Yinsen – we ran out, shooting everyone in our way. I didn't care who I killed, if they had a family waiting for them, if they were forced to be there – and I know that at least some of them were." Tony's voice was thick with anguish and his eyes were shinier than usual. Natasha sat closer to him, wrapping her free arm around his waist. He leaned into her touch, and she could feel the tremors running through his body. She held him closer to her, wanting to calm his shaking.

"We were almost out of the complex," he continued, "when all of them– or those we hadn't killed yet – surrounded us." He looked at Natasha with grief and self-loathing swimming in the dark pools of his eyes. "Yinsen yelled at me to run and dropped the bombs. And I listened and ran, my finger down hard on the trigger. He _killed himself _for me. _That's_ what happened in Afghanistan."

To call what she felt sympathy was inadequate; she felt his pain as acutely as if it were her own. She could just imagine – he had never drawn blood before, at least not with his own two hands, and now the blood of all those men, be they enemy or ally, was on his hands. She knew how it felt to kill, yes, had been trained for it since she was a child. Violence and death was a part of her life, so much that she couldn't remember a time when her soul wasn't stained dark red from the blood she was raised in. But Tony had known otherwise; he hadn't been a good person, but he hadn't been a murderer either. The bloodstains must be harder to bear for him than they ever had been for her.

"Tony…" she murmured, holding him close. There were no words she could give him, no comfort to offer except a physical one. He melted into her embrace, hugging her fiercely to him as though she were keeping him afloat from the darkness of his memories. When his trembling had stopped, she drew back, and said, "You're a fighter, Tony. This" – she laid a finger on the scar on his chest – "is a mark of that."

He gave a wry smile. "Not a fighter. Just one lucky coward. But you… you're a fighter. You've fought to be free and now you are."

She returned a genuine smile. "We both are," she said firmly. She had freed herself from her past, and he from his captors and vices. "And now, for the first time in my life, I can choose where I want to go. I don't think I know that yet, but I think we both know _who _I want to go with," she finished, for once feeling shy as a schoolgirl.

His smile was sad and bittersweet, but hopeful too. "Really, Tasha?" The new nickname brought a thrill running down her spine. "You would want" – he gestured at his body – "this? Not just the scar but – but this mess of a person?"

"If you want me and all _my_ scars and the darkness behind them," she answered.

The corners of his eyes crinkled as his smile turned to one filled with love. "I do."

That was a vow more potent than any that had ever been made to her before, or any that could ever be made. "As do I," she said softly. She cradled his face and pressed a slow, intimate kiss to his lips. After all, she was free to choose what she wanted, and this was her choice, and it will be for years to come.

* * *

**Note:** So this is definitely, the last chapter of Strings. I'm sorry it took so long.

Strings was originally supposed to be a one-shot, a response to ThaliaClio's fic 'people aren't supposed to look back'. Go read it if you liked Strings, it's beautiful and still one of the best ironwidow fics I've ever read.

Thank you all of you for sticking with me and leaving me all your lovely comments even when I'm so bad at updating and replying. Your comments are what reminds me that this fic exists and that people are reading it and waiting for the next chapter. To all of you who have ever commented, especially those anonymous comments I can't reply to – thank you. For liking my writing, for the encouragements, for the death threats, and for those rare times when someone really _gets_ what I'm trying to say and lets me know that. Thank you.

Until next time,

-letthesongtakeflight


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